


Free Shipping

by alreadysomeone



Series: Shipping News [2]
Category: JAG (TV 1995)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alreadysomeone/pseuds/alreadysomeone
Summary: Sequel to "Shipping Out," wherein Mac runs into Webb on the night before he’s due to leave for Suriname.  I wasn’t going to do a sequel, but I had a flash of an idea, and this is what came out.  Webb is in Suriname with Mac’s underwear, and he gets some mail-order ideas for the holidays.
Relationships: Sarah MacKenzie/Clayton Webb
Series: Shipping News [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982152
Kudos: 1





	Free Shipping

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Up through Season 8's "When the Bough Breaks."

November 15, 2002  
Paramaribo, Suriname

Just my crappy luck. First, I get posted to Suriname, and then I spend an amazing night with Sarah MacKenzie. The first part is a really bad thing. The second part is a really great thing, and wouldn’t have been bad, except for the first part - I was leaving for Suriname the next day. At least I’ve got her underwear as a souvenir. 

I didn’t, and still don’t, regret giving that videotape to Rabb. And Suriname has turned out to be a pleasant surprise, so far. I’d never been here before, but, with Dutch as one of my language skills, it's always been in the back of my mind as a possible posting. I’m already starting to pick up some Sranan, which seems to be the lingua franca. The mix of cultures, races, and religions here is pretty unusual, and it makes for some interesting architecture and cuisine. Some places look like an attempt at Amsterdam, others give you the feel of New Orleans, and you can’t get a better, or cheaper, bowl of fried noodles. 

But the travelogue I could write about this place doesn’t quite make up for the fact that there’s not much to keep tabs on here, professionally speaking, that is. From what I can tell so far, the current government is friendly towards capitalism and the West, and we’re still keeping an eye on the opposition parties waiting in the wings, but things have been relatively quiet here in the past year or so. 

It’s taken me a couple of weeks to get acclimatized, and I’m finally adjusting to drinking the local water. The first week was hell, but getting used to it beats having to scrounge for bottled water all the time. I’m settling in more and more every day. I work well with the station chief; and my apartment, while being miniscule, has a nice little balcony that overlooks a thick stand of palm trees, and, so far, has been blissfully bug free. Even the window-mounted air conditioner works well and relatively quietly. If I knew that I could jump right back into the thick of things when I got back to DC, I’d *almost* consider this a well deserved, and much needed, vacation. But I know that my exiled status might last several months, and even when I get back, I’ll likely still be drawing the short straw for assignments. 

Such strange dichotomies have arisen in my life. Getting sent here, and knowing that, when I return, I’ll still be on the DCI’s shit list, is on one end of the spectrum; my incredible night with Sarah, and the enjoyment of this small, but intriguing, country is on the other. I hope Sarah meant it when she said she’d come to visit me. I want to share this experience with her. 

I was really dumbfounded at my own actions that night, and how close I felt to Sarah by the time I dropped her off the next morning. I’d gone to the Willard with the explicit intention of drowning my sorrows, and to forget, for at least a few hours, that I’d done something that could have completely ruined my career – all for Rabb, no less, the ungrateful prick. I guess I was feeling like quite the martyr, getting punished for being the one to make the sacrifice to give those families the closure they wanted and deserved. 

I wasn’t sorry at all about what I did. I just wanted some recognition, and not in the form of a plane ticket to Suriname. It was kind of silly of me to choose the Willard. It’s not all that unusual for me to run into people I know there, or friends of Mother’s who recognize me. I could have really embarrassed myself, or her. Maybe part of me wanted to, or maybe I just didn’t care anymore. But I never could have hoped to have the kind of luck I had, when I was noticed by the person who *did* see me there. And, when that cup of coffee was placed in front of me, I knew getting sloppy drunk wasn’t really the best way to handle how I was feeling. 

I guess those crazy kismet moments do happen; even though shitty things are going on all around you, you stumble across something, or someone, wonderful in the process. I’m not sure what compelled me to pursue something with Sarah that night. She was so genuine in her concern for me, and I tried to get her to participate in my pity-party, but she wouldn’t have any of it. Without lecturing me or demeaning me, she simply wouldn’t let me feel sorry for myself. 

When the conversation turned into a flirty banter, there was a sexual tension between us, and we both knew it. But somewhere along the line, I experienced an unfamiliar desire to open up to her. Other than a few co-workers, and my mother, Rabb was the only person I’d told about the real reason I was getting transferred. My co-workers took pity on my geographic destination, but noted that I was getting off easy for what I’d done. Mother was sympathetic and, I think, proud of what I did. The situation of the families of the Angel Shark hit really close to home for her. 

Rabb’s reaction was superficially compassionate. But not once did I get any hint from him that he truly understood why I’d done it. We had stood together in front of the CIA memorial wall, for Christsake, and it never once registered that I might have a personal interest in the issue. Self-centered bastard. It’s always about his pain, and his loss. 

But Sarah matter-of-factly stated that I’d done the right thing, and I believed her. I started to realize then, how different she was from anyone I’d been with before. One minute we were flirting, and propositioning each other in the bar; the next, we were in the elevator, having what was probably one of the most emotionally open discussions I’ve ever had with a woman. Those two sides of the way we interacted set the pattern for the rest of the night. 

The sex was fucking incredible. And, later that night, when I wanted to talk, she listened and encouraged me. It was exactly what I needed – both the sex and the listening. After that, I really wanted to hear about her background. I wasn’t being polite; I really wanted to know more about her. My curiosity was piqued. This woman, who was so hot and wanton in bed, and who could get me to open up, was more of a mystery to me than when I first met her. 

Sex is a difficult thing in my job. You can’t go around telling your would-be girlfriends what you do for a living. You can tell them that you work for the State Department, but, when you come home from a “diplomatic tour” of the Middle East, it’s hard to get much understanding from someone who thinks the worst thing that happened was the Ambassador getting food poisoning, when that was really the best part; the worst being the foot chase through the streets of Riyadh that ended with your partner taking a bullet in the leg. 

Sex is also a difficult thing for me, personally. Let me restate that: I don’t often let myself really go in bed. There are things I like, and things that really pleasure me, which I know most of the preppy Ivy League-schooled women I’ve dated wouldn’t really go for. I mean, I’m not into spanking or leather, but I really like talking dirty, for example. With Sarah, I felt totally comfortable letting go. God, watching her touch herself as she stroked me . . . Oh, hell, I’m getting a hard on, just thinking about it. 

Maybe it was because we’ve known each other for so many years, that things seemed so easy. I’d like to think we’d been friends, and not just colleagues, for most of the time since we’d first met. But I guess you can’t really put too much thought into why you’re a better fit with some people than others. Sometimes it’s just chemistry. 

When we went up to my room, I don’t think either of us had any illusions about what the night was about. It was a one-night stand. But no one left in the middle of the night, and no one snuck out before breakfast. Something changed, between the time we entered the room and the time we finally went to sleep. The irony of the whole situation was that, if I hadn’t been “shipping out” that next day, none of it would have happened at all. 

As soon as I arrived in Paramaribo and got the telephone installed in my apartment, I called Sarah at her office. She wasn’t in, and I left a very dry, short voicemail, telling her I’d arrived in Paramaribo, and was trying out my new phone to be sure I could make international calls. I didn’t leave my number, though. I felt kind of stupid, leaving that flimsy excuse for my phone call. Who falls for a woman on his last night in the country, over what was likely a pity-fuck? 

Over the past couple of weeks, though, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. I didn’t wash her underwear that I’d absconded with. Instead, I did lewd things with them, while thinking of Sarah. I began to wish that I’d left my phone number when I’d called. I wanted her to make contact with me, so I wouldn’t have to call again to talk to her. I wasn’t sure how to proceed, or what to do about the fact that here I was, thousands of miles away, with less than twenty hours of intimate time with this woman, and I was continuing to fall in love with her. 

I’ve begun to really crave her. Not just physically; I yearn for the connection we forged that night, and don’t think I’ll be able to stand not contacting her again. Damn it, I’m starting to need her; as much as this is scaring me, and I’m probably just torturing myself thinking Sarah might have feelings for me, too, I decide I’ve got to do *something*. Maybe I’ll send an email to her, and to my mother, and a few friends. That way, I’ll be able to resist the urge to write something sappy or totally dirty to her. I need to hear from her before making any assumptions. 

My plan in place, I walk the half-mile to the café that has three computers inside, and calls itself “The Only Internet Café in Suriname.” I compose my email to be mostly newsy and light. I talk about the food, about the famous sight of the mosque that stands next to a synagogue, and about the amazing red soil in the rainforest. Then I walk, as slowly as possible, back to my apartment, while sipping on my bottle of Coke, trying to combat the heat and humidity. I walk in the door, throw my keys down on the small wood-grain Formica-topped table next to the door, and immediately pick up the phone. God, I’m pathetic. 

“Sarah?” I try not to sound surprised that she picked up the phone, but my heart’s pounding. 

“Clay?” 

Okay, while I might have succeeded in sounding relatively calm, she’s completely failing. She sounds downright shocked to hear from me. I have no idea if that’s good or bad. 

“Hi, Sarah. Just thought I’d call and say, ‘hello.’” 

The conversation starts out really stiff and stilted. I think Rabb, or someone, is in her office, which is confirmed when Sarah says, “Harm’s here. Want to talk to him?” 

“God, no!” I deadpan. 

We both laugh at my automatic answer, and she’s saved from having to tell him that I’d rather be transferred to Canada than to talk to him, when I hear Tiner in the background, telling Rabb that the Admiral wants to see him. Maybe *Rabb* will get a transfer to Canada. 

As soon as he leaves the office, Sarah tells me she’s shutting the door. My mind immediately jumps into the gutter. I ask what she’s wearing, and she doesn’t hesitate for a second. “My uniform. But surely you know that you took off for parts unknown with my last pair of underwear . . .” 

It’s obviously not true, but a fun image, nonetheless. 

“And I still have them. Hang on.” I put the phone down. Not many cordless phones here, and the corded phone I’ve got in my apartment even has a rotary dial. 

I quickly walk to my bed, and find Sarah’s underwear where I’d left them, after a particularly vivid daydream about her and some rather acrobatic positions having to do with this old brass bed frame. 

“Okay. I’ve got your underwear right here. Why don’t you come down and get them?” I’m twirling them around on my finger, watching the material make circular motions in the air. 

“Don’t you like to think of me, here at work, in my uniform, with no underwear?” she says softly. 

“Yes, and I’m starting to get quite a hard on, thinking about it now. But I’d rather have you here.” 

I’d been concerned that things would be all weird. There was no need. This sounds like it could get really fun, and mutually pleasurable – and fast, assuming she can lock her door and close the blinds. But there’s a pause on her end of the conversation, and I think I hear the door opening again. 

“Hey, Clay,” her tone of voice has changed completely, “I have to go. The Admiral’s asking for me now, too.” 

“Oh. Okay. I’ll email you.” 

“Good. Let me know how you’re faring there, and if I can send you anything.” There’s real caring in her voice now. Before I reply, she whispers into the phone, “And you can tell me what exactly you’re doing with my underwear on your lonely nights in Suriname. Bye.” 

“You can count on it.” 

After hanging up, I immediately toss her underwear back onto my bed, and start to walk out the door, straight back to the café to send that email. Then I turn around, grab the panties, and shove them in the pocket of my baggy shorts. I might need them for inspiration while I write. 

Once I get there, I order a beer, and take a seat in front of the same computer I was at earlier, and log on to my personal email account. I start to delete the porn ads that have piled up in just the short time since I was last here. As I skim the subject lines of the ads, I get an idea. Opening another browser window, I do a little web searching, and find just the site I need. 

As I peruse the product selections available on this site, I’m really glad that there’s no one at the computer next to me, and that my monitor isn’t facing outwards. Choosing something that seems exciting, but hopefully isn’t too silly or scary looking, I enter my credit card number, pray that the connection is secure, and enter JAG’s address in the “Mail To” section. When it all gets totaled up, I get a pop up window that says “FREE SHIPPING.” Must be my lucky day. 

I send Sarah an email that is short and to the point, with just a few hints about what I’ve been doing with her panties. It reads something like this: 

“The weather here is hot and humid, which is how I feel when I think about you. Rest assured that your pair of panties are serving their country well, keeping a lonely patriot company on those hot, sticky, and very lonely nights. Let’s just say, they’ve been as close to me as they were to you when you were wearing them. And, no, I haven’t been wearing them myself. Look for a package from me that you can use to your heart’s content, while you imagine what I’ve been up to with your underwear.” 

I leave the café, and walk home, briskly this time, kind of giddy from talking to Sarah, and from the sexual charge I got out of writing that email. Once I’m back inside my apartment, I lie on the bed and jerk off, grasping Sarah’s underwear in one hand, my cock in the other. I really want her. 

After leaving work the next day, I go to the Internet café and quickly read through the email from my mother, to get to the one from Sarah. I guess this is the moment of truth. I take a deep breath and click on her message. 

“Clay, 

If you’re doing what I think you’re doing with my underwear, I’m wet just thinking about it. And if you like, I’ll wear a pair especially for you and do what you’re doing, then I’ll send them to you. I’d love to elaborate, but Harm and I are due to catch a transport to the Seahawk. Did you send the package to me at work, or at home? 

Love,  
Sarah” 

Wow. That was quick, and to the point, and I have to discreetly reach to my crotch to adjust myself because of my erection. I foresee another night of self-gratification ahead. I had been hoping to call her, but since she’ll be on the Seahawk, that’s pretty much out of the question. I’m sure I could get the call placed from the office, but that’s hardly the kind of conversation I want to have from my CIA desk while Sarah’s on a carrier with Harm. The thought of it is enough to make me lose my hard-on. 

Tipping my head back and staring at the ceiling, I take a moment before replying to Sarah’s email. I’m sure she’ll have access to her account on the ship, but I’m concerned about the lack of privacy. I finally begin to type. 

“Dear Sarah, 

Thanks for that incredible visual image. You know what I’m going to do when I get home. The package is being sent to the JAG office. Call me when you get back. We can put the contents of your package to good use over the phone. 

Love,  
Clay” 

Sarah ends up stuck on the Seahawk filling in as the shipboard JAG, and over the three weeks that she’s there, we exchange emails at least once a day. We even manage a couple of instant messenger sessions. But, because email isn’t all that private, we keep our messages fairly vague. Although, if anyone read them, they’d have to be pretty dense not to pick up on what’s going on, even though we aren’t using any overtly sexual language. 

Sarah tells me that Harriet emailed to say that a package had arrived for her at JAG. Thinking it was a mail order Christmas present, Harriet hid it under Sarah’s desk, much to my relief. With the hint I gave her that the item in the package is “a battery-operated device that’s smaller than a breadbox, and much more fun,” she figured out pretty fast that it’s a vibrator. She confessed to having had one in college, but it got lost in one of her transfers. I told her some four-star has probably been enjoying it for years. 

Our messages back and forth have been great. Between the sexual innuendo and clear desire between us, Sarah’s “listened” to my complaints about how frustrated I am here, and I’ve given my opinion on more than a few of the cases she’s handled on the Seahawk. It’s like we’re both in this no-man’s-land limbo – me in Suriname, Sarah on the Seahawk. It’s a continuation of our night at the Willard – something very removed from our regular lives. But the way we’ve been communicating feels more real than what I remember as being “real.” 

I’m starting to go stir crazy here. And I’ve been feeling a little depressed, which is unusual for me. I’m so out of the loop here. I thrive in my job, because I enjoy the challenges and I feel like I can make a difference. Since I’ve been here, though, the biggest challenge has been the overwhelming humidity, and it's so frustrating to not be involved in something that matters. There have been a few days where I’ve considered simply quitting, and trying to find work with another agency, or even as an independent contractor in the intelligence community. 

I won’t share my fears with Sarah, even though she’s turning out to be the best friend I’ve had in years. The emotional attachment I’m feeling towards her is making me not want to approach the subject, for fear that our relationship, such as it is, is temporary, like our respective assignments. And it would be one more thing I’ll feel that I’ve got no control over. Since her assignment is ending tomorrow, and I’ll be in mine for an undetermined amount of time, I feel like I’m at a disadvantage. 

On the first day Sarah is back in DC, I don’t let myself get near a phone. I’m sure she needs to get settled in at home and work before she hears from me. Although I want so badly to have a private conversation with her where we can talk freely, I mostly want to hear her voice, and confirm that what’s been going on between us hasn’t been some tropics-induced illusion, or a figment of my imagination. 

I only make it until the end of the day before I break down and pick up the phone. Since it’s a couple of hours later here than DC, I call her at work as soon as I get home from grabbing a quick bite at one of the Javanese food carts. It’s nearly 6 o’clock here; I assume she’ll still be at her desk at a little before 4 in the afternoon on a Tuesday. 

I pick up the phone and stretch the cord over to the couch, where I place it on the low wood coffee table, and begin to dial. Sarah answers kind of briskly, “MacKenzie.” 

“Mac? Sarah?” I’m thrown by hearing her last name and her voice. 

“Webb? What’s up?” 

Oh, hell. It sounds like we’re working a case together. It’s nothing like our emails. 

“You get the package?” I’m not sure how to get this conversation back on track. 

“Yeah. Hang on.” There’s a “thunk” as she puts the receiver down, and I hear her footsteps on the linoleum floor, then the closing of the door, and her steps back to the phone. 

“Clay? I’m opening it right now.” 

If what’s in that package isn’t an icebreaker, I don’t know what is. I hear her tearing the box open, and there’s silence for a bit, then I hear her sort of gasp and sort of laugh. 

“Wow. That’s not like any vibrator I’ve ever seen, Clay. You were pretty bold in your selection. ‘The Mermaid Pearl.’” She’s obviously reading the packing slip. She sounds amused, and not appalled by the thing, which is good. 

“The website advertised it as ‘twice as nice,’ and said it came with batteries,” I tell her. 

“Yeah, they’re in here. Hang on.” 

“You going to put that thing to use right now?” I’m halfway between joking and hoping. 

“Well . . .” she lets the word linger. 

Then I hear a faint buzzing sound. I might have something to hope for, after all, and I have no desire to joke anymore. I want her to use that thing, and I want her to do it while she’s on the phone with me. I reach over and grab her panties from the arm of the couch. It’s a good thing I haven’t had anyone over to my place here; they’d likely find Sarah’s underwear lying on the couch, or the kitchen table, or the bed, or the bathroom counter. I like having them around. 

“Can you hear that?” Sarah asks, the buzzing getting louder as she presumably holds it up to the phone. 

“Yesss,” I’m getting very turned on. But before we can pursue anything, I hear her say, “Hey!” and there’s a clunk and a click. The line goes dead. I’m sort of laughing, because I assume that someone came into her office while she was holding the buzzing vibrator. But, if that really was the case, I’ll feel really bad for her. Getting caught holding an electronic sex toy at work can’t be good for your military career. Twenty minutes later, I call her back, dying to know what happened. 

“Well, what happened?” I ask, without giving a greeting. 

“You’ll never believe it.” Sarah’s laughing so hard she can barely talk. 

“I take that whoever came in wasn’t the Admiral, and that he or she didn’t see what you were holding. Either that, or it was the Admiral, and he demanded a turn at using it.” 

This makes her laugh even harder, and it’s a while before she can get the whole story out. 

“Harm came bursting in here, looking for me. I dropped the phone right away, and shoved the vibrator under my desk, turning it off first, thank God. He got curious about what I was hiding. So, I finally had to tell him it was his Christmas present.” 

At that, I laugh really hard, too, “Maybe we should send him one. Or one of those vibrating cock rings.” 

“Ug, not a good visual image, Clay.” 

I’m sort of relieved to hear her say that. It hasn’t explicitly come up between us, but with Sarah, there’s always the lingering specter of her relationship with Harm hovering around. 

“How about this for a more preferable picture: Me, fucking you hard from behind, while I pinch your nipples, and suck on the back of your neck.” 

“Uh,” she sort of grunts. “That’s much better. If I were home, this conversation could get very interesting.” 

I suggest she lock her door, to ward off Harm. But Sarah tells me that Harm’s asked her to sit in on an interview with a client he’s defending, and the Lieutenant is coming any minute. So, she can’t really start anything. I’ve already got my pants unzipped and bunched down. My hand’s been lightly caressing my erection ever since I mentioned going at her from behind. 

“Okay, just talk to me then.” I’m starting to breathe hard, and I wonder if she knows what I’m doing. 

“Clay, I know what you’re doing.” Well, that answers that. “I’m happy to talk you through this, but just know that you’re going to owe me. I expect a phone call from you, later tonight.” 

“You bet.” I’m getting past the point of long sentences. And I don’t want to do much talking anyway; I want to hear her. I want to jerk off to the sound of her voice, I almost don’t care what she’s talking about. 

“Well, after spending the night with you, I kept picturing all the things we did together, at the most inopportune times. Like in a meeting with the Admiral, or during a really long closing argument that Harm was giving. But, mostly I thought about you at night.” 

“Tell me about that,” I beg. 

“I’d think of you, and, without even touching myself, I’d get wet. I’d picture you with my underwear, doing what you’re doing now, and I’d immediately get turned on. Then, I’d start to lightly tease my nipples, envisioning your tongue lapping at them. Then I’d gradually get more and more forceful with my hands, wanting it to be you touching me the way you did that night, working them all the way down my body.” 

The death grip I’ve got on the phone receiver is telling of the tension running through my whole body. As I stroke myself up and down, letting my thumb circle the head of my shaft every few strokes, I soak in the sound of Sarah’s voice. I shut my eyes, and try to remember what it felt like to kiss her, to feel her body moving under mine. I imagine going down on her, and sucking on her clit, plunging my fingers in her tight passage, then thrusting my cock there to feel her squeeze me tight. 

“Clay, Harm’s waving at me. I promised I’d sit in on his witness interview; I have to go,” she says suddenly, sounding very apologetic. 

“God, Sarah, I really want to come.” I’m at that desperate stage, where I don’t care what it takes, I want to fall over that blinding edge. 

I hear her yell, “Be there in a minute, Harm.” 

Then she whispers hurriedly into the phone, “I’m so wet thinking about you touching yourself. Next time I see you, I’m going to throw you on what ever surface is closest, and fuck your brains out so hard you won’t see straight for days. I’ll be sore all over from how hard we do it, over and over, that first night.” 

“Oh, yeah, I’m going to fuck you so hard.” My sentence is kind of garbled, because as the words leave my mouth my cock is throbbing in my hand, and I’m coming all over my stomach. I try to catch my breath quickly, “Well, that beat doing it alone, but I really want to see you.” 

“I have to go. But I’ll call you when I get home; what’s your number there?” 

I give her my phone number, and replace the phone receiver in its cradle with a little sigh. That was really intense. I want to do it again. Well, not immediately. But I love the idea of the JAG office staff going about their daily business, while Sarah listens to me get off over the phone. However, the prospect of talking to her later, when she can use the vibrator, is even more appealing. The best would be to see her in person, but I don’t view that as a very realistic possibility; I’m kind of locked in down here, and DC is too far to fly for a weekend. Maybe she can get a few days off and come down here. I don’t even know for sure that she’d want to see me in person, though. For some reason, I’m a little worried that this has all been kind of a game for her. I mean, I like the sexual play we’ve got going, but the feelings I have for her are not a game. And I hope she’s not inclined to toy with me. 

December 16, 2002  
Mac’s Apartment in Georgetown

It’s really good to be home again. I’ve come to like carrier life, for a limited amount of time. And, this time, three weeks was plenty long enough for me. Petty Officer Coates has turned into a hard working sailor, and she was fun to work with, too. It’s really rewarding to see someone we helped out doing well for herself. I finally got up the nerve to ask her how to use the instant messenger program on the computer in the legal office; I couldn’t get it to work, for the life of me. I’m sure she guessed that there was a particular man I was corresponding with, but she never asked. She probably thought it was Harm. 

Spending the night with Clay certainly nailed *that* coffin closed for good. Not that I was really so interested in Harm anymore, anyway. We’d been pulling away from each other for a while; probably since we got back from the carrier after Bud’s accident. I think being with Clay helped me to fully seal off that emotional path. Otherwise, I suspect part of me would always harbor some nostalgic feelings for Harm. I probably still will. But the connection I felt with Clay kind of wiped out any thoughts of being with anyone else, at least for now. When I first realized that, the concept scared me; it also excited me at the same time. In fact, practically the entire experience with Clay at the Willard held that same kind of dichotomy at its root. It was freeing, but intimate; rough, but sensual; physical, but emotional. Feeling all those things with one person, in one night, was overwhelming. I think, sometimes, if you make it to your 30’s without being married, you get jaded about what relationships can be. You start to believe you can either have hot and heavy, or you can have emotional and intimate. Being with Clay blew that theory out of the water. I’m a true believer now, even if I never was one before, that you can have both things with one person. We certainly did that night. 

As our emails and IM-ing started to become a daily habit, I came to count on those “talks” with Clay to ground me, and to lighten my mood. He was a great listener and good sounding board. He gave advice, without ever sounding like he knew better than I did, or like he was trying to “fix things,” the way a lot of men do. As blunt and brash as Clay can be in the course of his job, one-on-one he takes great care not to offend or overstep his bounds. 

Clay’s displayed a unique combination of being both giving in his demeanor, as well as expressive of his needs, too. It’s just the way he was in bed. And it’s been a pleasant discovery to note that it extends to interpersonal relations as well. 

Over the course of those weeks, I started to worry about Clay, though. He began sounding more and more depressed. His frustration with the Suriname posting seemed to be growing. I think he’s someone who, like me, needs to feel useful, and like he’s making a difference. Even though he never comes out and says anything, I can hear the dissatisfaction in his voice, when he talks about the things that are happening in the world, and where he feels his skills could be better utilized. 

Our emails also contained some heavily suggestive language, which for me have been the fodder for many a late night fantasy. Thank goodness, I managed to swing private quarters – the reduction in personnel to save on the budget really hurts the Navy, but a small upshot is that you get more personal space, even on a carrier. Putting my hands to good use on those nights, I imagined being with Clay, and replayed that night, over and over in my mind. Sometimes, I’d give in to my more emotional fantasies, and envision that I’d told him how I was feeling – that I loved him. Everything that’s happened between us seems so removed and unreal now. I need to see him again in person, to gauge if this is something that’s just a fling, or if it’s truly something deeper, as I’ve been feeling. 

I’d figured out pretty fast what Clay had ordered for me. And I was very grateful that Harriet had the forethought to put the mail order box in my office. Although I almost blew it today, nearly getting caught holding the thing when Harm came in. But, having to finally tell him that it was his Christmas present was almost worth it. 

After that, listening to Clay’s voice and breath in my ear as he got closer and closer to release was really exciting, but frustrating. I had a hard time concentrating on what Harm was saying during his interview with Lieutenant Williams, because I kept thinking about that vibrator, and getting home to use it. But I was finally able to listen with a critical ear, and I could see why Harm wanted me in there. The Lieutenant has accused several senior officers of sexual harassment, including her first two JAG lawyers, which is why she had been referred to JAG headquarters for legal counsel on her original sexual harassment case. I think Harm was worried about being lawyer number three to get slapped with a lawsuit, and so wanted a woman in the room with him. 

After Harm managed to get her out of the office, we had a surprisingly friendly dinner of take out Chinese food, while we talked about the case. It’s the best we’ve gotten along in months, and it felt good to be working together again. I also felt a kind of relief. I think something inside me has switched off where he’s concerned, and, without the stress of our ever-pending almost-relationship, I think we can be good friends and a good litigating team again. 

It feels so good to be home now, though. Last night was my first night back, and I fell asleep at 8 o’clock. There’s nothing like sleeping in your own bed, and I was glad to not be moving with the swells of the ocean. Tonight, my apartment seems strangely lonely. In spite of the fact that Clay’s spent less than an hour here, ever, I’ve come to count on our daily emails, and now, being in my own home instead of going back to my quarters on the Seahawk, I realize that I want him here with me. 

When Mic left, I was so emotionally confused; I don't know if I missed him, or missed Harm, or missed something in myself that I'd lost along the way. Now, I want Clay to be here. I want that daily interaction with him, not just anyone, and I want it in person. 

Before I allow myself to call Clay, I take a shower, change into my pale blue flannel pajamas, and take the vibrator out of the box. I sit cross-legged in the middle of my bed, and, reading my own writing on the piece of paper with Clay’s phone number on it, I pick up the bedside phone and dial. On about the 6th ring, I’m ready to hang up and go it alone with the “Mermaid Pearl.” Just as I take a deep breath, and let it out in a frustrated huff, Clay picks up the phone, and I hear him fumble with the receiver before he gets it in place. 

“Hello?” 

“You okay, Clay?” I wonder if he was out. Or maybe he was in the bathroom. 

“I was in the bathroom, sorry. I’m glad you called.” 

“I thought maybe you were out. I was going to have to break this thing in on my own,” I threaten with a tease in my voice. 

“There’s not a chance in hell I’d miss this phone call. But, first, how’d it go with Harm’s client?” 

I fill him in on Lieutenant Williams, and I tell him that I felt more comfortable with Harm than I have in a long time. Clay pauses before asking why. I pause, too, and our conversation slows down as I figure out how to approach the subject without making some desperate declaration of love to Clay. I’m even more positive now that this is a conversation I don’t really want to have in any kind of detail over the phone. So, as vaguely as possible, I tell him that Harm and I had not been getting along very well, particularly after I’d gotten the TAD assignment on the bench. But, that after being away, and some other things had shifted in my mind, we’d worked together really well tonight, and that I didn’t think there were any lingering feelings between us in connection to whatever dysfunctional relationship we’d been nursing all these years. 

I think I hear relief in Clay’s voice, and he doesn’t press the issue; instead moving the conversation back to business, so to speak. 

“First, the basics. What are you wearing?” 

“Nothing terribly sexy. Flannel pajamas, but I am on my bed.” I hear Clay laugh a little, but I continue, “Well, what are *you* wearing?” 

“Nothing, actually.” 

“You’re kidding?” I’m genuinely surprised. 

“When it’s over 80 degrees at night, you don’t actually need much in the way of clothes. Besides, I was expecting your call. I even went out and found a place that sold phone cords, so now my phone reaches the bed.” 

“I’m flattered.” And I really am. It’s a small thing, and not terribly romantic, but it’s kind of sweet. 

“Yes, it’s not just any woman I’ll buy a longer phone cord for. And you’re the first woman I’ve bought a vibrator for.” He’s laughing when he begins the statement, but he sounds sheepish when he tells me about the vibrator. 

"Now I’m really flattered.” I mean it; how many men would sit in an internet café and mail order a vibrator for the woman in their lives? 

“Do you have it there?” No longer shy, I think he really does intend to get down to business. 

I turn on the vibrator, and Clay asks if I’ve turned on both motors. There’s one in the main shaft, and one in what the pamphlet described as the “clitickler.” The whole thing is blue, and the shaft has these beads in it that sort of swivel around inside the rubber material it’s made of. The clitickler part sticks up, to presumably be in the perfect position when you’ve got the vibrator inside you. The one I had in college was your basic bullet shaped, one-speed vibrator. This thing is capable of 15 different setting combinations. It’s really an amazing piece of equipment. 

“Can you hear it vibrating? This thing is really impressive, Clay. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was out of the CIA’s Science and Tech division,” I joke. 

“That’d be the day. Those guys are the most repressed of all the directorates,” Clay laughs at his own declaration. 

“Well, *you* certainly don’t suffer from any sexual repression.” I idly wonder to myself if all the CIA Operations guys are as sexual as he is. 

“Yeah, well. You bring it out in me. What are you doing now?” Again, he steers us back to the task at hand, so to speak. 

“Lying back, softly rubbing the vibrator over myself. Why? What do you want me to do?” I say, issuing him a challenge. 

“I want you to take those flannel pajamas off, for one thing. Then, get into bed.” 

“Okay. One sec.” I put the phone and vibrator down on the bed, toss my pajamas on the floor, and then I pull back the covers to slip in. “I’m back. Mission accomplished.” 

“I want you to touch yourself. With just your hands first. Turn the vibrator off, for now.” Clay is speaking in almost a whisper; it’s very sensual. 

I comply, and set the vibrator to the side, freeing my hand to touch myself; I start at my nipples. I describe to Clay how I’d done this on the Seahawk, but that I’d never been able to take it slow. Pinching my nipples hard now, the reaction between my legs is instantaneous, and I quickly move my hand between my legs. 

“I’m so wet,” I tell him. 

“Sarah.” The desire is thick in his voice, and I realize he’s kind of stopped talking; I was really getting such a charge out of describing what I was doing to myself, that I hadn’t noticed. 

“Clay, what are you doing?” 

“Holding my cock so hard. That’s the way you held me inside you, and, God, it felt so fucking good.” 

“Oh, yeah?” I’m diving my fingers inside me now, and running my hand over my clit. 

“Yeah,” he confirms with a pant. 

The idea of Clay telling me what to do, step by step, has completely gone by the wayside, but he does suggest I turn on the vibrator. No argument here. I trap the phone between my shoulder and my ear, so I can use both hands. 

“You remember how it felt to fuck me, Sarah? I remember exactly how you felt. What are you doing with that vibrator? Do you have it inside you?” 

“Almost . . . okay.” God, talk about the wonders of modern technology. This feels incredible.   
My intellectual amazement at the advances in vibrator technology doesn’t last long. Pretty soon, I’m telling Clay how it fills me up, and feels great vibrating me from the inside, and from the outside, too, with the smaller motor buzzing directly on my clit. I move it in and out to the sound of Clay’s voice, panting, “In . . . out.” I reach my free hand back to my breasts, and grab hard at one nipple then the other, imitating the way Clay had pinched at them. 

“Clay, no one’s ever touched me the way you did. Your hands, and your mouth, are amazing. I can’t wait to feel you inside me again.” 

“Say it.” It’s a barely audible whisper. 

“Fuck me,” I answer softly, my concentration elsewhere. 

“Say it again,” he begs. 

“Fuck me, Clay. I want you to fuck me.” I’m louder this time, and I discover that the volume is kind of a turn on, too. 

“Jesus, yes. Sarah, when I see you, you’re going to get fucked so hard.” 

“I’m so close.” I can feel my interior muscles tightening up in preparation. 

“Come on, Sarah. I want to hear you come.” 

I plunge the vibrator all the way inside me, hold it steady there, and listen to Clay pretty much pleading for my release. His desire for such verbal and open erotica is more of a turn on than I’d have guessed. I’ve never been with anyone so loud or expressive. I love the way it makes me feel, though. It’s like we wield this sort of power over one another; just by using words and sounds, we can heighten the pleasure for each other. At last, I let myself go, and am loud when I come; in the moments after I’ve climaxed, Clay is quiet while I return my focus to him. 

“Clay. Are you going to fuck me, or what?” I tease. 

“Only if you come again,” he challenges me. 

“I think that can be arranged.” I’ve still got the vibrator buzzing inside me, on a much lower setting now, though. 

“Will you suck my cock again, next time?” 

“Yes.” Taking him into my mouth last time was too brief. I loved the reactions I’d elicited in him from using my mouth and tongue on his erection. 

“I really wanted to come in your mouth.” I’m guessing that’s what he’s thinking about now. And I confess, I like the idea as well. 

“I loved the way you felt in my mouth, and the way you tasted.” 

“Fuck, yes. God, you used just the right amount of lips, teeth, and tongue. You were so good.” 

“Clay . . . “ I’m almost over the edge again, and I want him to finish with me. 

“Almost. There. Oh. Yeah.” He gets louder with every word and on “yeah”, we’re coming together. My second orgasm isn’t as strong as the first, but it allows me to pay more attention to Clay’s breathing, which gets gasp-y, then comes back in hard pants, presumably when he’s spent. 

"Well. Welcome home.” I can hear the smile in his voice. I’m sure he’s got a devilish grin on his face. 

“I only got taken out to lunch at work. This sure as hell beats that,” I snicker. 

We joke about that for a few minutes, and then continue to talk softly about what we’d do if we were together. Thinking up positions and locations is fun for a while, but the conversation turns more serious when he admits that he hasn’t slept well since we were together. I’m not sure if he’s trying to tell me that being with me gave him some form of comfort that he needed to rest, or if it’s an illustration of his unhappiness in Suriname. 

We get off the phone an hour after I’d called, and I do a couple of loads of laundry, before trying to go to sleep; I’m kind of wound up from talking to Clay. When I’m in bed, finally feeling tired enough to sleep, the phone rings at midnight, just as I’m dozing off. It’s Clay. 

“What are you doing?” Clay asks with a gentle timbre. 

“Going to sleep? Why aren’t you?” It’s 2 in the morning there. 

“You’re not here,” he admits. 

Now I’m positive his poor sleeping patterns are related to me. But I don’t know what to say. It’s all so strange. I don’t even have a picture of the guy to look at. The pause in our conversation is getting awkward. He breaks the silence by speaking again, “I just wanted to say good night.” 

“I’m really glad you called,” I try to reassure him, but I think he’s feeling embarrassed by his confession. 

“Hey, I just got back from the internet café. You’ll be getting another package. I sent it to your house this time; it should be there in a week.” He sounds more sure of himself now, and only a little shy about buying me another gift. 

“You going to tell me what it is?” How many complicated sex toys does a woman need? What I need is him, not another appliance. 

“No.” 

I promise to wait to open it until we’re on the phone together. We start just sort of chit-chatting then, rehashing our respective days at work, and I start to get really sleepy. He sounds tired, too, and I accidentally doze off for a few minutes. I wake all the way up, with the phone pressed painfully between my ear and the pillow. 

“Clay?” I don’t think he’s been saying anything, I wonder if he went to sleep, too, or maybe he hung up. 

“Yeah?” He’s still there, but he sounds sleepy. I get this image of Clay, in bed, with just a sheet covering the lower half of his body, as he sleeps in Suriname, and it stirs my heart. I’ve got to find a way to get down there. 

“I fell asleep,” I fess up. 

“Me, too. We should probably hang up.” 

“Your bill is going to be astronomical. Let me know what it is, and I’ll write you a check.” 

There’s no doubt in my mind that both of our phone bills are going to be through the roof, until he gets back into town, or at least someplace with domestic rates. 

“Thanks for the offer, but let me cover it.” 

“Thanks. G’night.” 

Even though we’re both busy all of a sudden at work, our emails increase to an alarming dozen per day. Clay has to make a couple of trips to Brazil, and into the interior of Suriname. It sounds like things are getting a little more interesting for him, and he doesn’t seem as stressed when he talks about being in Paramaribo. We talk on the phone when we can, and, every single time, true to form, the calls are full of the opposites I’ve come to expect with Clay: sexy, but emotionally intimate. 

Clay invites me down to see him in several roundabout ways. But I never give him a straight answer. I plan to surprise him, and have made flight reservations for Christmas Eve. I’m taking the whole week off, and I know he’s not coming home, so I’m hoping for a hot time in the tropics. I think he’s getting worried, though, since I won’t address his suggestions about coming for a visit. I know I’m torturing the guy, but I hope the surprise is worth it. 

Clay’s second package to me arrives on the 23rd, but, when he calls that night, I tell him it must have gotten lost in the holiday mail. I hustle him off the phone, since I need to finish packing for my early morning flight. I’d already told him that I was going to spend Christmas with Chloe and her grandmother, so I use that as an excuse, pleading the need for a good night’s sleep. 

My trip to Paramaribo takes forever. I have to fly to Miami and change planes there. It’s a crazy time of year to try to fly anywhere, especially someplace sunny like Florida. Then, my flight to Suriname is delayed three times. When I finally land, it’s 85 degrees and raining. I feel silly hauling my winter coat around, but it was 36 degrees outside when I left my house this morning. Although, I did dress in layers, so I’m able to strip down to my cotton slacks and thin wraparound blouse, which helps cool me down some. 

I catch a cab to Clay’s apartment, and arrive there just before 6. Clay wasn’t kidding about some of these buildings looking like New Orleans. His apartment building is two stories high, and all the second floor units have fancy wrought iron balconies, even though I’m guessing this is a fairly middle-class neighborhood. Palm and mangrove trees line the streets, and on the other side of Clay’s building is a grassy square where there are some kids playing soccer in the rain. 

I pay the driver, and carry my suitcase up the stairs to apartment 2D. Taking a deep breath, I knock three times, and feel my stomach knot in nervous anticipation as I wait for Clay to answer the door. I hear his footsteps first, and since there’s no peep-hole, it’s not until he’s got the door open that he realizes who’s dropped by. 

He opens his mouth, and closes it again. I think I’ve rendered him speechless. I just stand there, smiling at him, completely sure that my surprise was just that, absolutely unexpected. Clay’s eyes soften, and he bites his lower lip as he tilts his head to consider me, as if he’s not sure I’m really here. I’m so glad to see him in person that I’m just as content as he is to stare back at him, grinning at the way he’s looking at me, and taking in his appearance. He’s much tanner than before, and is in a pair of sandals, khaki Bermuda-style shorts, and a white button down shirt that’s very loosely tucked in. The sleeves are rolled up, he’s got only about half the buttons done, and it’s clinging to him in the places where he’s sweaty from the heat and humidity. He looks incredibly sexy. 

December 24, 2002  
Webb’s apartment, Paramaribo, Suriname

Sarah should have called me by now. I wanted to know when she arrived safely at Chloe’s grandmother’s house. There were supposed to be storms all along the Atlantic seaboard today. I tilt my head back to rest it on the back of the couch as I put my feet up, and take a pull on my bottle of beer. Closing my eyes, I try to remember what my life was like before coming down here. It’s strange, but I feel so far removed from my “old life”, that I can hardly picture it in any detail. 

It’s not only the change in geography that’s different; it’s also this relationship with Sarah. It completely caught me off guard. But I guess I was ready for something unexpected to happen that night. And, after the last month of “cyber dating” her, not to mention the great phone sex, I’m as in love with her as I’ve ever been with anyone. 

I was relieved to hear her hint that there aren’t any left over feelings between she and Rabb. That would have just killed me. Rabb’s such a self-centered bastard, when it comes to his relationships. He couldn’t even take the time to forge a real friendship with his brother, who he’d been so desperate to bring to the states. 

But, some of the best parts of what Sarah and I have, have been the little things, like falling asleep on the phone together. It’s like we’re some married couple that’s never slept apart. I’ve never imagined feeling that way with anyone. I guess I figured some day, when I got around to it, or when the opportunity fell into my lap, I’d find someone I could tolerate, and who could tolerate my job circumstances, and I’d produce some grandkids for my mother. But this thing with Sarah is so far from just being “good enough,” the other scenario seems ludicrous now.   
I’ve invited her down here a few times. Never directly; I haven’t wanted to come off as pushy. I have to admit that I was kind of hurt that she never took me up on the offer. I thought seriously about showing up there, and even looked into booking a flight. But the station chief has gone home for holidays, and so I have to stay. 

There are two things that Sarah and I don’t talk about: she won’t respond to my hints about coming to see me, and we never address our relationship. I’m afraid to topple the house of cards we’ve built. Things are so great now, although, at times, it feels tortuous to not be in the same place. But if we were, would things be the way they are now between us? Just like that night at the Willard; if the circumstances hadn’t been just right, the whole night never would have happened. I doubt she’d have slept with me, and I don’t think either one of us would have opened up the way we did. 

As my concerns about where things are going with Sarah have increased, my anxiety about work has almost completely dissipated. There are some political things starting to brew down here. It’s such an unobtrusive country, that, as the US has cracked down elsewhere, Suriname’s getting more and more drug trafficking coming through, and the government is encouraging what looks like international money laundering. I think they have ambitions of being the United Arab Emirates of the West, where dirty money and illegal goods are freely traded, and are welcomed, because it’s good for the local economy. We’ve even started to see some terrorist money moving through. It’s primarily from South American groups, but with the highest per-capita Muslim population in South America, the country’s ripe for Al Queda recruiting. 

The station chief and I have just recently started to work on some recruiting of our own. From the Director of Operations’ reaction to our first report, which included our analysis of the situation here, I think we’re starting to get some notice from Langley. This is a country to watch, and resources need to be properly applied here. It’s really rewarding to work on something meaningful again, and coming at it from a different angle. My background experience with Middle Eastern terror groups gives me a unique perspective. But they’re going to really have to staff up here if things continue this way. Right now, this office is on the bottom of the barrel for staffing and technology. 

I call Mother, and talk to her for about ten minutes. She was heading out the door for the Norton’s annual Christmas Eve party, one event I am not sorry to be in South America for. Just as I’m pondering having another beer, there’s a knock on my door. It’s probably Jules, begging me to join the perpetual soccer game that he and the other neighborhood kids have going. I made the mistake of playing with them a couple of times; now they’re relentless in trying to recruit me for another game. Maybe I’ll say yes tonight. I can’t get any more hot or sweaty.   
I’m absolutely floored when I open the door to find, not a scrawny 12 year old, but Sarah MacKenzie, standing on my doorstep, and looking amazing. I know I’m staring at her; I don’t care. I’m so happy she’s here. My head’s nearly spinning, and I’m completely at a loss for words. 

“I was going to call you tonight,” I finally manage. Any exclamations of disbelief that she’s here would be redundant at this point. 

“I saved you the dime,” she bandies back. 

I open the door wide, and step back to give her room to come inside, rolling her suitcase behind her. I take her winter coat from her, and we laugh at it as I hang it on the coat rack next to the door. As soon as I do, I spin around and kiss her, knocking her back against the front door. Once she gets her balance again, Sarah presses against me with the same kind of force, and I have to struggle a little to keep *my* balance as I keep her pressed to the door. It’s almost a shoving match, as we fight for control of the situation. We’re kissing so hard that I taste a faint tang of blood, and the force of energy between us is powerful. She’s got her hands all over me, working my ass, reaching to untuck my shirt, running her fingers through my hair. And I’m devouring her just as hungrily. The silky material of her shirt wraps around her torso, and it takes me two tries to get the knot at her side undone, but, when I do, I pull the shirt wide open and attack her breasts. 

Pinning her to the door with my hips, I lean the upper part of my body back to look at her. Her lips are red from her smudged lipstick, and probably from our kisses. She’s flushed in the face, and she’s got a sultry look in her eye that matches the heat and humidity in the air. She’s just hanging on to my shirt, bunching up the material near my waist into her fists, as she moves her hips against mine, putting pressure on my erection in an undulating pattern. 

I lower my lips to her neck and suck hard, using my teeth. Sarah moans my name, and I continue to bite and suck, working my way to her breasts. As I do, I unhook her bra, and she shrugs her shirt and bra out of the way. I grab both of her breasts hard in my hands, and, while I pinch and twist one, I work the other into a rock-hard peak with my mouth. Her skin is hot under my touch, and we’re both really starting to sweat. 

Sarah pushes against me, and gets us moving towards the couch. On the way, she kicks off her shoes; I shed my shirt, and start to undo my shorts. We don’t make it to the front of the couch; instead, she pulls my shorts down and reaches into my boxers for my erection. I let my head drop back when her hand makes contact. It’s so good. Sarah starts pumping me up and down, while I work on her pants. She lets me go to get rid of her remaining clothes, and I do the same. Finally, we embrace our naked bodies together, holding onto each other for a while, just moving our bodies together, skin against skin. 

“Clay, fuck me,” Sarah says, finally breaking the silence. She’s caught on well to my penchant for that phrase, but her tone is light. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” I say back with equal levity. 

When I reach my hand between us to caress and explore her sex, her wetness drives me insane. Instantly, I want to have my cock inside her, and to feel her tightening around me as she climaxes. I hoist her onto the back edge of the couch, and she spreads her legs for me, while she finds my erection again with her hands. With her thumb, she spreads around the moisture that’s formed on the head, and trails one hand lower to reach my balls, and the sensitive skin behind them. 

“Jesus, that’s good. Don’t stop,” I say as she pumps me. “Wait, you’d better stop. Come here.” She’s right in front of me, but I need her closer. 

Sarah first lifts one leg, then the other, up and around my waist. My cock just at her entrance, I grab myself to rub the tip of it over her opening, up to her clit, and back down again, before pushing all the way inside her. 

“Oh, yeahhh,” she breathes into my ear, her head bent forward, resting on my shoulder. 

I turn my attention back to her breasts, but I can’t quite reach either nipple with my mouth, so I kiss her lips, and probe her mouth with my tongue, while rolling her nipples between my thumbs and index fingers. Sarah’s got one arm around my neck, hanging onto me tightly. I feel her other hand travel between us, where I know she’s rubbing her clit, and, once in a while, I can feel her fingers on my shaft as I pivot my hips to draw myself in and out of her. 

Her breathing turns to pants, and her hips are thrusting back hard against me. I can feel her muscles squeezing me hard. “Don’t stop,” I encourage her, and I’m getting really close, too. 

“Oh, yeah, just like that. Do it like that. Harder,” she asks. 

I move my hands to her hips, grab her hard, and slam into her. We’re both grunting, and working hard; her release is preceded by a loud shout of my name. And, when her walls squeeze all around me in spasms, I come inside her, shouting out as well. 

We’re still gasping for breath, and are now clinging to each other, probably for fear of toppling over. I can feel Sarah’s leg muscles quake as she disengages from my body, and I slide all the way out of her. 

“Welcome to Suriname,” I smile, and kiss her formally on the cheek in a mock greeting. 

“Talk about unwrapping a ‘Jag’ for Christmas,” Sarah laughs, but I don’t get it. 

“Huh?” 

She tells me about the Jaguar car commercials they’re constantly playing on the radio and TV in the states. We take turns showering in my tiny bathroom, and I give her a pair of shorts and a tank top of mine to wear, while I don something similar. Sarah and I sit on the couch, and have hot chocolate while waiting for Santa to come, even though I think the temperature is still above 80. And, sometime after midnight, she reveals that my package to her did arrive, and that it’s in her suitcase. 

I tell her to stay on the couch, while I get it. I’d moved her luggage into the bedroom earlier, so I unzip it on the bed, and find that the package is right in the center – the rest of her belongings are packed around it. I bring the box back to the couch, and watch as she opens it up. I really hope she likes what I picked out. There was this pop-up ad, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. 

Sarah fights her way past the packing tape and the tissue paper inside, and holds up the short royal blue silk nightgown I’d chosen for her. She smiles, and asks if this is because she’d been wearing the flannel pajamas when she’d called me. I have to confess that it is, and that I hope she’ll wear the nightgown for me while she’s here, and again when she’s at home and we talk on the phone. Agreeing, she stands and makes her way to the bedroom, reappearing in a couple of minutes with it on. 

The rich material looks amazing against her olive skin. The nightgown’s sleeveless, with a high neckline that buttons at the top, but that leaves a small oval opening just below the button to show off her skin. Sarah’s toned arms and shoulders look fantastic, and, when she turns around, I see the larger opening at the upper back, that allows even more of her amazing skin to show. 

I stand up and hold her in place, my hands on her shoulders, so I can kiss the exposed skin on her back. Then, spinning her around, I kiss the hollow at the base of her neck, which is accessible through the opening in the material there. I hadn’t noticed before, but she’s holding a small rectangular wrapped gift in her hands. 

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the box. 

“Christmas present for you.” Sarah smiles, and hands it to me. 

“God, Sarah, you showing up here is more than enough.” 

“It’s nothing expensive, or anything. I saw it in a catalogue, and thought of you.” She’s trying to downplay it, but I suspect she’s as apprehensive as I was about my gift choice. 

Taking the box from her hands, I wrap her left hand in mine, and tug her back to the couch, where we sit. Carefully tearing the blue and white snowflake wrapping paper open, there’s a blue box inside, which holds a watch. I slide it out of the box, and see that it’s a wind up analog watch with the KBG’s insignia of the hammer and sickle, with the agency's sword and shield crest on the face. I laugh, and look at the back to see that it really was made in Russia. 

“If you’ve already got one that you took off the arm of some KGB spy you shot back in the Cold War, I can return it.” 

“Very funny. I love it. It’s one of those self-winding ones,” I note. It really is a good gift for a spy. I think some of my CIA co-workers will be jealous. “You get Russian Navy watches for Rabb and Chegwidden?” 

Shit. I don’t know where that snide comment came from. Actually, I do; it came from the jealousy that still sits in the pit of my stomach because Sarah and I haven’t talked about being exclusive, or what exactly our relationship is, and I know it’s eating away at me, only to surface at the worst times. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she spits out angrily, our Christmas mood gone in a split second. 

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Thank you very much for the watch.” I don’t want to fight with her. I hope I can get out of this fairly unscathed, although I know the comment’s done nothing for my chances at a real relationship with her. 

“Clay, I’m not buying watches for, or having sex with, anyone else.” She knows exactly what’s going on. I guess a jealous man is not hard to spot. 

“I didn’t mean to imply . . .” I don’t know how to continue. I really didn’t mean that she was sleeping with anyone else. I have enough respect for her to know that she wouldn’t be sexually involved with two men at the same time, even if the sex with me was only over the phone. But I’m not sure how to proceed. I’d rather just go to sleep, with her in my arms, and know that she’s here with me right now, than to hear that she has reservations about us, or that she can’t commit to me, or that this is just a temporary thing for her. 

“Clay, I think we should talk,” she says those words that men dread. 

“Okay.” I pray the ‘we should just be friends’ line isn’t coming. 

“I meant what I said; I’m not seeing anyone else. In fact, I don’t want to see anyone else in the foreseeable future. I have my reservations about a relationship with you, but only because we haven’t even been on the same continent since we started this thing. But I’m willing to wait until we get that chance, and when we do, which I hope is soon, I’d like to . . .” 

She’s at a loss for words. I think we’re both nervous about putting our real feelings out on the table before we know where the other stands. Sarah’s silently staring at her hands now, which are fidgeting in her lap. 

“Me, too,” I say, knowing we don’t really have to spell everything out, but wanting more than anything for Sarah to know we’re feeling the same thing. 

She smiles at me, and leans in to kiss me tenderly on the lips. We sort of nuzzle each other for a while, and, even though my worries have been assuaged, my heart’s still beating a little fast. 

“Let’s go to bed,” Sarah suggests. 

We again take turns in the miniscule bathroom, and, while Sarah’s in there, I turn out the lights in my apartment, put the chain on the front door, and dig up a candle to put on my nightstand. When she comes out of the bathroom, still in her new nightgown, Sarah stands over me, just watching for a minute. I’m lying on my right side, facing her, and, with the candlelight’s flickering illumination as the only light in the room, her delicate features are accented, and she looks more beautiful than ever. 

I smile up at her, and she slides under the sheet next to me, so that we’re face to face. Sarah caresses my face lightly with her hands, and I close my eyes under her soft touches. Tracing my lips, then brushing her fingers down my chin to my bare chest, she presses her forehead against mine, and we lie close, our shallow breaths mingling together. 

I bring my left hand up to brush her hair back from her face, then gently rub the back of her neck. Very slowly, we let our lips meet. It’s so soft and sensual, and is everything we’ve been feeling, but were afraid to express. Sarah runs her hands around to my back, and brings me closer to her. I scoot forward, and she puts a leg over my hip as I roll forward to bring our bodies into full contact. 

I slide my hand over the silky material of her nightgown as we continue to kiss, our tongues leisurely rolling over and over one another, establishing an unhurried rhythm to our love making. Bunching her nightgown up as I run my hand underneath it, I relish the rise of Sarah’s hip, and the curve back down to her waist. 

She brings one hand back to my chest, to draw a line down to my nipple, which she teases with her finger tips, before moving her hand farther down to discover I’m not wearing anything. She pulls back and smiles, leisurely enfolding my erection in her hand. I begin to languorously tilt my hips into her hand with the same deliberate, but leisurely, rhythm with which we’re kissing. 

Eventually, I roll Sarah on top of me, and pull the nightgown over her head. I’d planned to make love to her while she still wore it, but I want to see all of her. She sits up, her knees on either side of my hips, and closes her eyes as I touch her sex, putting a finger inside her with one hand, circling her tight bundle of nerves with the thumb of my other hand. She hums with pleasure, and dangles her hands down to resume touching my cock, which has become painfully erect. 

Moving my hands to her hips, I guide Sarah’s hot wetness to cover my erection. We moan simultaneously at the sensation, and I hold her still on top of me, soaking in the feeling of being sheathed inside her, all stretched out, surrounded by her tight walls. 

Sarah starts to move slowly up and down, as she leans in to kiss me again. Returning the kiss, I break it off to hold her head in my hands, and look into her eyes. What I see there is heart stopping; the desire in her gaze is right at the surface, brimming with need, and we simply stare at each other, for what seems like forever. 

Breaking us out of the moment, Sarah speeds up her motions, and all of a sudden begins to pound away on top of me at a fast pace. 

“Hey, hey. Slow . . . slow,” I whisper, suspecting she thinks I want it fast and hard all the time, probably since that’s all we’ve done before. 

She stops moving altogether, and questions me with a look. I gingerly roll us over, and lean on my forearms to bring my face directly over hers. I place my hands on top of her head, and run my fingers through her hair, while kissing her forehead, nose, mouth, and landing my lips on her neck, near her ear. Sarah lifts her head to kiss my shoulder and jaw line. I thrust my hips, drawing my hardness in and out of her, exacting a kind of slow torture, as we get to know this new pace between us. 

The intensity increases to an impossible height. I’m physically and emotionally engulfed in Sarah, and I don’t ever want to find my way out. I press my body to hers, and she tilts her hips to increase the depth of my strokes. I feel her grinding her pelvis against me when I pump into her, and can feel my release approaching. Sarah whispers, “Close,” in my ear. She squeezes her arms tight around me, and I feel her clenching me from the inside, too. We come together, with quick pants and hard breaths. 

It’s past 2 am now, and we fall asleep together, holding one another. But I keep waking, and reaching for her in the night, to make sure she’s really here. 

December 25, 2002  
Webb’s apartment, Paramaribo, Suriname

I wake up with my head next to Clay’s; I’m on my right side, and he’s on his left, still sound asleep. I watch his rib cage expand and contract with his even breathing, and revel in that simple indication that he’s real, and right here next to me. I shamelessly study his face as he continues to sleep, noting the dark stubble that’s appeared on his face, seemingly overnight. 

I start to think about last night, and find myself feeling so relieved that we managed to talk about what’s been going on between us – what we want to go on between us – in spite of the shaky beginning to the conversation. Although, it is flattering to know that the man you’re with is jealous of the other men in your life. I think he really did like the watch, though. And he did a nice job of picking out my nightgown. 

Still watching Clay, I smile to myself when his eyes begin to dart back and forth under their lids, presumably from a dream he’s having. His breathing changes into uneven, short huffs, and his arm twitches a little. When the dream passes, Clay begins to move as he comes awake.   
He opens his sleep filled eyes, to find me watching him. 

“Good morning,” I say. 

Clay swallows and blinks his eyes a few times, then rubs his eye sockets with the heels of his hands. “Morning. What time is it?” 

“Eight-seventeen.” I stretch my neck to reach his face, and plant a kiss on his lips. “Do you have to work today, or the rest of the week?” 

He turns on his back and closes his eyes again. I watch his expression shift several times, as he plots through the week in his mind. Finally coming to a conclusion, “Today, yes. The rest of the week, no.” 

We lie in bed, idly holding hands, playing with each other’s fingers, and feeling each other’s bodies, as we plan out the week. I have four days. “That’s it?” Clay complains. 

“Hey, you’re lucky I’m here at all!” I say, faking offence.

He wrestles with me in retaliation, pinning my hands over my head, and straddling my waist. “What makes you think I wouldn’t have come up there to get you?”

“What, and drag me back to your cave by the hair?”

We’re laughing and joking, but I can feel my body reacting to having him on top of me. And, the way he’s sitting on me, I have a close-up view of the erection that’s growing between his legs. 

“Now, that idea’s got some possibilities.” Clay grabs a fist full of my hair in his right hand and, while he’s not really pulling it, he puts enough pressure into his grip that I can feel my scalp tingle from the sensation, and it’s really arousing.

Clay continues to hold onto my hair as he lowers his torso onto mine and kisses me roughly. He continues to assault my body, biting little, hard nips from my neck to my breasts. Then he suckles my nipples, one at a time, and works each one into a stiff point, before biting down on them, sending tingles of pleasure through my extremities and between my legs. 

I can feel the wetness form between my lower lips, and I start to move my hips with desire. Clay lets go of my hair as he sucks and kisses his way farther down, nibbling hard at the points of my hip bones, and finally settling between my legs. I really want him, but know that he’s not nearly finished with his exploration of my body this morning, which is confirmed when he lifts my legs over his shoulders to gain better access to my core, which is swollen and pulsing with the need for his touches. 

Clay licks from my wet opening to my clit, ending the stroke with a flick of the point of his tongue on my hard cluster of nerves. When he lifts his tongue from me, he presses his lips into the skin of my inner thigh, and I hear him moan my name. As he spreads my lips with his fingers, and begins at his task in earnest, Clay looks up at me. I meet his gaze, and tilt and rotate my hips in time with the circular motion of his tongue on my clit and his fingers, which are diving inside me. I reach a hand down to him, and he reaches a hand up; we weave our fingers together, and squeeze hard. My body is moving of its own volition now; I’m completely at his mercy, and, as if he knows my thoughts, Clay lets go of my hand, abandons his oral efforts, and crawls back up my body.

He grabs a fistful of my hair again, and thrusts himself hard inside me. I hold onto his ass, moving his hips against me the way I want him to move, but just as I start to take control, Clay lets go of my hair, and grabs first one wrist, then the other, to hold them in place over my head. I wonder if he has control issues, and if tying *him* up is something he’ll let me do sometime. But then he grins, and says, “Next time, it’s your turn.” 

Imagining getting my turn at being in this kind of control, while Clay’s hands are immobilized, turns me on all the more. Clay is bringing me rapidly to the edge, and, in the way that we’ve been joking around all morning, he says, “Do I have to make you say it?”

I play along, “Yes,” my tone defiant.

Clay holds my wrists tighter, his grasp easily holding both of my wrists in one hand. With the other, he pinches hard at my nipple, “Say it.”

Just like our first night together, I’m so turned on by the near desperation in his voice, as he shamelessly begs me for something he so badly wants. With each hard thrust of his cock inside me, I want him to do it harder and deeper. With each twist of my nipples between his fingers, I want more. But I can’t stand to hold us back from release any longer, and just before I say it, the irony strikes me that even though he’s the one holding me down, I’m the one with the power. 

“Fuck me.” 

“Oh, God. Sarah, fuck, you’re so fucking good.” He lets go of my nipple, but still holds onto my wrists, one in each hand now, as he pumps in and out of me hard and fast.

“I love the way you fuck me.” My mind is so far gone now; bodily needs have taken over completely. I hardly know what I’m saying, but the words tumble from my mouth anyway.

His eyes scrunch up with the effort, and longing for release. I lift my legs high around him, giving him complete access to the depths of my body. “Like that, like that,” I say, as my climax begins with a low wave inside me, and builds up to crash through my whole body. 

Clay continues his thrusts through my orgasm, and, when the last wave has rolled over me, he slows down and flips us over. I guess I’m going to get my turn sooner than I thought. 

Interweaving our fingers together, I put his hands on either side of his head. Clay immediately senses that I understand exactly what he wants, and he smiles at me. Without a word, I smile back, and start to grind my hips into his, letting my knees do all the work, as I pump up and down on him. Clay lies back, not moving an inch, but, with each down motion I make, I can feel the shaking from his thigh muscles as he strains not to thrust his hips up. He’s playing a game with himself, and now I’m determined to get him to writhe under me, the way I was moving around under him while he held my hands.

I lean down and have to really stretch, but I reach one of his nipples with my mouth. I lick it with my tongue spread flat out, then I blow hard on the stiff peak. When he feels the coldness, his hips give one big jerk up. I smile, “Gotcha.” 

“Oh, yeah?” he threatens, and tries to wrest his hands out of my control. I squeeze his fingers tightly between mine, and push them back into the mattress.

“Hey!” Clay says, “Ouch.” 

I laugh, and call him a sissy, letting up just a little on the pressure. But I never stop the rhythm of my hips, and he’s still thrusting into me. I can see in his expression that he’s not going to be arguing with me anymore about who’s in charge.

“Keep going,” he says, after a few minutes. I squeeze his hands to let him know I’m not stopping until we’re done. 

And, when he pants, “Like that, fuck me just like that,” I lean forward to press my breasts against his chest, and I feel another, smaller, orgasm start at my core. Just as I reach the peak again, and start to spiral down, Clay tosses his head from side to side on the pillow, and I feel his cock spasming inside me with his climax. 

I collapse onto him, and we gingerly untangle our fingers, our hands stiff from the straining grip we had on each other. Clay grabs me, and pulls me down into a kiss that’s warm and soft. We roll onto our sides and kiss for a few minutes. 

We shower quickly, and Clay fixes me an amazing breakfast, with omelets and fresh fruit from the local market. He fills me in on what's going on with work, and I can hear in his voice that he’s feeling better, and is even excited about it. After we clean up from breakfast, we sit on the couch and loosely plan the schedule for my time here. Clay lies down and puts his head in my lap, and I run my fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp as we talk. After a couple of minutes of silence, I realize that he’s fallen asleep. I remember then that he said he hadn’t been sleeping well. I wonder if he’ll catch up on his rest while I’m here, because he seems to sleep better with me around; or if he’ll get further behind with his sleep, because we’re going at it like rabbits all the time. I laugh at the thought, and Clay mumbles, “What?” 

I keep my fingers in his hair, and tell him to go back to sleep, but he seems to be done with his catnap. 

“You know, Sarah, you’re exactly what men want. You’re a saint in the living room, and a whore in the bedroom,” Clay says sleepily. 

“Is that what *men* want, or is that what *you* want?” I tease him. 

“Well, it is what I want, but I think it’s probably pretty universal for most men,” he states thoughtfully. 

I lean down and kiss his forehead, and we decide to get going with the day. Clay has to make contact with one of his recruited agents, and I go along, since the visiting girlfriend of an American “businessman” makes a good cover. We take a taxi to Independence Square, which Clay says with a perfect accent, “Onafhankelijksplein,” but I can’t pronounce it at all. We laugh in the cab as Clay tries to get me to say it correctly, by putting his hand on my face and forcing my mouth into the right position. I guess my talent for languages is limited to the Middle and Far East. 

While we walk around the grounds surrounding the Presidential Palace and the adjacent park, we pass only a few other foreign tourists, and several local couples and families. As we pass a man with two small children, Clay picks up a ball that one of the kids has dropped. He hands it back to the father and, only because I knew to look for it, I notice the less-than-a-second pause in the hand off. That must have been Clay’s agent. 

The weather turns cloudy, and even more muggy, as the skies prepare to unleash a typical late December storm on the city. So, we return to Clay’s apartment and spend the late afternoon and evening reading the English newspaper, and lamenting the lack of ZNN. 

Over the next few days, we travel through the countryside and see two rain forest preserves. Suriname is a unique country, and I can see why Clay was so enamored with it initially. And we seem to travel well together, which I am glad about. It’s a true test of a relationship, with a friend or a lover, when you travel together. We’re only taking day trips, but Clay and I don’t even bicker over what time to get up, how fast to drive, or how to fold the map. 

One afternoon, I watch him play soccer with Jules and the rest of the neighborhood boys. Clay obviously played at some point in his life, and I can easily imagine him on his high school soccer team. After admiring his skill with the ball, and his great legs, I marvel at how he’s not only playing with the kids, but also sort of coaching them, too, without them even realizing it. I join the game near the end, when one of the kids has to go home for dinner, and I think I really impress the boys; I don’t think they thought a girl could play. Clay kisses me as the game ends; his team won, and he smiles widely as he compliments my playing, then turns to high five the kids on the losing team. 

I feel so close to him now, and can’t imagine that I haven’t always been this comfortable with him, even though I know better. After making love on his balcony in the rain, on my last night in Paramaribo, Clay holds me from behind, and whispers, “I love you,” in my ear. Saying the words back to him makes me nervous. I really want to make this work, and I want to make it work back home in DC, not just on some Christmas break from reality, but I have to be honest with myself, and admit that I’d fallen for him that night at the Willard.

Turning around in his arms, I nervously share my thoughts with him. And when he says, “Me, too,” there it is – all laid out on the table between us. He caresses my face, and then holds my hands as we kiss passionately.

I break the kiss to lead us inside to his bed. We’re still drenched from the rain, and we soak his sheets as we make love all over again, starting out slow, but intense, and building up to a thundering heat as we climax again. After showering, we change the sheets, and sleep soundly, wrapped in each other’s arms.

I wake to the clanging sound of the telephone ringing, and Clay jumping out of bed to answer it. He answers in short sentences, mostly consisting of “yes” or “no,” and he asks a few questions about locations and travel times. When he gets off the phone, Clay tells me that it was a call from CIA Operations, informing him that he’s being transferred to Jakarta. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be there, but feels it’s closer to the action, and that it’s the DCI’s way of slowly bringing him back from “exile”, without losing face; Clay considers Indonesia a stopping place on his way back to DC. I know better than to ask for any kind of timeline, and I tell him to be careful there. I wasn’t worried about his physical safety in Suriname, but things are heating up in South East Asia, and now that we’ve just found each other, I don’t want to get any kind of phone call telling me some thing’s happened to him. 

Instead of asking for details, which I know he likely doesn’t even have himself yet, and probably couldn’t tell me even if he did, I express to Clay my concerns for his safe return. I can’t help crying a little, as I do. He wipes the tears from my face with his thumbs, and tenderly holds my face in his hands. I’m embarrassed at my display of emotion, berating my apparent lack of a “tough Marine” shell. Clay reminds me that he knows that I know that legwork is sometimes necessary in both of our jobs, and that he will eventually be back in DC, and, in the meantime, he says, “Remember that I love you, and, no matter where I am, I’m thinking of you, and I’m coming back to be with you.” 

The morning passes too quickly, and, before I want it to, the time for me to leave arrives. Clay helps me pack up the last of my things. And, since I left the box my nightgown came in, I have room for the souvenirs I bought for Harriet, Bud, Tiner, Sturgis, Coates, the Admiral, and Harm. While Clay’s in the bathroom, I tuck the nightgown under Clay’s pillow, with a note asking him to take it with him to Indonesia, and to call me when he gets there.

We ride together in the taxi to the airport, and Clay hugs me tightly, after hoisting my suitcase from the trunk to the sidewalk. We kiss, and kiss again, the way you see people doing at the airport all the time, reluctant to leave the arms of their lovers, just as we are. 

I stifle a few tears as I walk into the terminal, and turn to wave one last time. The trip back is remarkably smooth, and, when I get off the plane, the temperature is in the twenties, and it’s snowing. I put on my winter coat as I prepare to go outside to grab a cab home. When I put my hand into my pockets, looking for my gloves, I come up with the ratty blue underwear I’d tried to ditch at the Willard in one hand, and a pair of Clay’s white cotton boxers in the other. Quickly stuffing them away, I smile to myself the rest of the way home, and call Clay as soon as I get in the door. As the phone rings, I read the note from Harriet that tells me she brought in my mail and turned on the heat earlier in the day. I’m very grateful for her thoughtfulness, because it’s nice and warm in my apartment, compared to the blowing storm outside. 

Clay answers the phone, “Found them, didn’t you?” 

“Hey, what if it wasn’t me?” I ask. 

“It’s not like I said, ‘fuck me’ or anything,” he chuckles. “By the way, I found your nightgown; if it wasn’t too small for me, I’d be tempted to wear it, just to feel like you were still here. I think I’ll opt for just sleeping with it, though.” 

I carry my cordless phone around with me, and get ready for bed while we talk about my flight and, in vague terms, his mission in Indonesia. Finally, I get under the covers and put my head on the pillow, phone still at the other ear. We talk until we’re both falling asleep, and then finally hang up with a mutual, “I love you.”

END


End file.
